


The One Light Eden Saw Play

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Family, Gen, Mash-up, Prayer, Waking Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 22:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20460896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is a transitional chapter.For those uneasy with religion--eh. It's hard to avoid in a world in which people do partake to varying degrees, AND where there are real angels, demons, an Antichrist, etc. I mean, even if you'd never believed before, you might feel driven to grudging agnosticism when you saw the wings. So there is some praying going on, in many different forms. Some quite obvious. Some not so obvious.I still love Anne Lamott's summary of the three kinds of prayer: "Help. Thanks. Wow!" IMO there would be a lot of at least the second two flying around the Holmes Compound around about this time.





	The One Light Eden Saw Play

Sherlock woke to the scent of passing rain—not just “petrichor,” the scent of rain on dry earth, but the scent of rain in the air, ozone on the wind, thunder and lightning still echoing in memory, rain on waves on sand, on slate, on heather, rain-rain-rain, passing into the east.

He woke to the scent of Janine, in his sheets, on his hands, rising warm and damp from the curls around his cock, the scent of Janine here moments ago, sleeping beside him, now passed into the house beyond, presumably to the loo, and from there—who knew?

She would come back. Would she come back? Answer and question both rung in him like a sounded bell, refusing to resolve. He feared her loss. He was certain of her constancy. Both were true, and the answer was unable to banish the question.

His eyes searched the room, seeking clues.

No sign of packing, but leaning over the bed he saw her flip-flops were gone. Cell phone was gone from the bedside table. Her brush had moved on the dresser, and a big, neon-blue aluminum hair stick was missing from a clutch of hair toys. There was a faint smell of her shampoo and body gel in the air, and clothes were missing—his and hers alike.

Got up, showered and shampooed, came back, dressed in something, collected their dirty clothes, went out to do laundry and make a call. Would probably make a pot of tea, (black as a sinner’s heart, and dosed with milk and sugar).

The call? Likely to be to family in Ireland. After all, last night she’d said “yes.” Again. To a remarkable prat. They’d want to know, if only to tell her she was crazy.

The grin on his own face was as crazy. She had said “yes.”

Would she live with him, at the cottage? Or would he live in hers—not quite as posh, but posh enough, a place out past Bognor Regis with a view of the Isle of Wight? Or would they find a third answer, not yet predicted? Live in Ireland? (Keep membership in the EU!) Travel and only come back to this haven to see Mycroft and Greg and the two Celestials and John and Rosie…

Already he knew they’d stay closer than that, because, well, Mycroft and Greg and the two Celestials and John and Rosie.

He was still in bed? Why was he still in bed?

Because he was lazy, he thought, and sleepy still from late-night lovemaking, and because he’d woken to the scent of passing rain, to the scent of Janine, to the scent of her shampoo and hair gel, to the fluttering hope and fear that he’d finally come to rest.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, flinging his arms wide, embracing the moment, doped on hope and desire.

He lived in a world with angels and demons. With feathered wings. A world where sometimes it was as simple and beautiful as Janine saying, “yes” for a second time, and him meaning it for the first time.

No. Him finally knowing he meant it, having missed that crucial revelation the first time. One deduction too few, last time, because there’s always something…

He drew in deep breaths, enjoying the smell of a perfect morning. A morning of myths. Somewhere deep inside some part of him sang “Morning Has Broken,” with the echoing voices of his old high school, with the rich choir of his uni, with Cat Stephens, with the village church, with some unknown singer busking in Baker Street Station.

Praise to the singing, praise to the morning, praise to them ringing, fresh from the word….

“Yes, Daadi. Yes. He’s the same gobshite who gamed me that time in London. _Dschi haan, _Daadi_—pagal bandar_, for sure—a crazy monkey. Yeah. Engaged. Really. I told-ja then I didn’t hate ‘im. He’s just a feckin’ eedjit. But—bloody hell, Daadi, he’s my eedjit. And ‘e can’t be all bad—not with an angel and an ifrit for neighbors, yeah? _Nahin_, no, no. Crowley’s a _good_ ifrit. A really nice ifrit. More like like a benign djinn or a puca than Shaitan. He’s kind of sweet. Complete soppin’ softy over the angel. Yeah—Yeah. I’ll say prayers, yeah. A rosary every day for Nan—and for you, _Aaoozobillahe minushairanir rajeem, _protection from Allah from Satan the cursed. Happy? Nah-nah, you don’t get to pull that on me, Daadi. Not when you’re havin’ with half the spooks and Good Folks and holy folks spat out all over Ireland. And watch what you say about my lad, y’hear? He may be a feckin’ gobshite, but I love ‘im, an’ when I bring ‘im home you’re servin’ the nice tea cake and the good Darjeeling and you’re gonna spoil him rotten, right? Yeah. Uphold the family, that’s my Daadi. You’ve got to do at least half as good as Nan’s gonna do, bring pride to us all. Yeah. I love you, too, Daadi. Gotta go, now. Yeah. People waking up. Love you. See you soon. Yes, when I come I’ll be bringin’ him with. Oh, he’s gettin’ me such a ring—yeah. Better than the last one. No. He doesn’t know it yet. But he’s not stupid, Daadi. Some things you got to make up for. Yeah. Bye, Daadi. Love you forever.”

Janine clicked her phone shut, slipped it into her pocket, and turned her face out to the sea and the last shimmer of night sky in the far West.

So, she thought. Now she’d told everyone. Everyone on both sides of the family had taken a shot at her for tyin’ up with Sherlock again. Thank God she’d never claimed to hate him. Thank God she’d always said it was his mistake, not hers: his loss, the fool. Made it easier, now.

She closed her eyes, and settled her mind. She said a rosary out loud for Nan Donlevy’s sake. She said the prayer for protection to please her Daadi Akram. Then she recited one of her own favorite poems, just because.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn’t he danced his did…

A voice joined her—melodic and expressive, in love with words, tinted with the most unexpected faint whisper of Welsh melody. The angel…

Together they carried the poem to the very end, in perfect unison by the end.

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes

Women and men (both ding and dong)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain.

She was crying by the time she reached the end, drowning in the gentle knowledge of precious lives lost to time and mortality. When she opened them, the angel was crying, too—clear tears dripping down his kind, amiable face.

They studied each other. He said, softly, “Humans. Such genius.”

“Hey,” she said. “Nothin’ to match all reality itself.”

“No, I disagree,” he said in perfect sobriety. “If there were no humans, so much of what is marvelous about Her creation would go unnoticed. We angels aren’t very good at understanding transience or humble goodness, much less celebrating it. As for Hell? Only Crowley understands it, that I know of. Though it’s a big place and I can hardly know everyone, especially as we don’t mingle socially in the same circles—like City and County. Not much overlap, not many of the same parties. Though it’s an idea. But I’m afraid if one held a cocktail party for Heaven and Hell to get to meet and greet either no one would come—or they’d get along much too well and you’d spend the next week cleaning up after the louts.”

She had to laugh. He was so perfectly serious about it. It didn’t matter if he were in girl skin or boy skin, she thought, because he was always so obviously Aziraphale inside the costume of the day: sweet, sober, worried, witty, valiant Aziraphale, the Little Angel That Could. (She could hear him in her spirit, jaw set, determined frown on his face, chuffing “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can” every day, as he set out to try to be a Good Angel.) The perfect foil for his beloved Scrooge McDemon who’d mutter and grouse and smart-arse all over the place, and sneak around after hours to leave Christmas turkeys on the doorstep and take Tiny Tim to the NHS wellness clinic.

She grinned at him, and pulled a tissue from the pack she’d brought knowing she was calling her family this morning. She flicked it open and tenderly dabbed his face with it. “Y’ silly old thing,” she said, softly. “Can’t all be bad, you Celestials. Not if they include you and that smart-arse you hang around with.”

He accepted her ministrations like a small but cooperative child being mopped off by his favorite kindergarten teacher, and smiled a watery smile at her. “Well. I do think he’s rather nice, if I do say so. Not that he wants to admit it.”

She grinned back. “Mine, too—bit of an arse, but sweet at the heart, yeah?”

They shared a happy grin. She said, then, “Breakfast over at the house?”

“Not this morning. We’ve company coming down, and need to set up for them.”

“Company! More Celestials?”

“No, no. Humans. Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell (retired), and Madam Tracy-as-was, who’s now Mrs. Shadwell. Good people—for rather unusual definition of goodness. I keep praying She appreciates them. Heaven and Hell wouldn’t.”

“Is it hard—not knowing what She wants or likes?”

“Is it hard for you?”

“Not really. I think in the end what she loves and believes is easy enough to reckon. She rigged the rules so things work better when people are sane, and kind, and generous, and take care of each other. She made most of the hard laws obvious: gravity sucks. High speed driving needs high speed reflexes. I mean, there are so many dumb ways to die—but so many of them don’t really require genius to figure out, yeah?”

“And death itself?”

She shrugged, and her mouth quivered just a bit. “Hate it. But—gotta say, I haven’t ever figured out a way to get the world to work right without it. I mean, maybe eternity works for folks like you and your man, but I can’t reckon a way to cope with it. We need our endings, or we stop meaning anything—just turn into run-on sentences, babbling crazy talk in the night. So. I guess I think God had it right: humans need their hard stop periods. We need…punctuation.”

“My word.” His face lit with fascination. “I can’t claim to have seen it that way. I’m not sure any of the Celestials have. We are less transcendent than humans, for the most part. We’ve all encountered her at least occasionally. Worked on one of her projects. Seen her handiwork as a work in progress—well. I mean—Earth. Humanity. Hardly a completed Opus, you must admit! And angels and demons are so seldom what one could call ‘subtle.’ Give them a scripture and they assume it’s as nice and accurate as the prophesies of Agnes Nutter, witch. They never seem to notice a lack of reliability in scripture. And so many of them are paper-pushers. Can’t get them out in the field where they might get assaulted by the occasional rogue question for love nor glory.” He sighed. “You’d at least think they’d notice that she hasn’t done much smiting, at least since the Fall. And I’m not sure about that.”

She nodded. “Inscrutable, yeah? Ineffable?”

He flashed her a smile—and with a gurgle that suggested he was very proud of his vocabulary acquisition, said, “Totally. To the max.”

The angel was such a dear, she thought. Years out of date, and clearly feeling so adorably on fleek.

She could imagine the angel as a viral Instagram meme…a series of ‘em. An entire kawaii category.

She smiled, and patted the lapel of today’s boating jacket—the stripes a light pink. Matching plaid bow tie and straw boater ribbon. “Well, have a good visit.”

“I will,” he said, then added, “I hope. Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell and Crowley are a bit over-fond of pickled beef sandwiches, beer and football. But that’s all right.” Delight and something disturbingly sensual glimmered in blue eyes, and he said, softly, “Madam Tracy…talks to me. She’s led an interesting life, our Tracy, and she’s got…ideas. Interesting ideas…”

She shouted in laughter. “You wicked angel, you! Shame.” She grinned. “But remember to pass the good ideas along, right?”

He blushed, but nodded. “I will. Pass word to the elder Mr. Holmes and DCI Lestrade that they’re welcome e over to ours this evening, if they’d like a little drinky with us all before retiring.”

“Will do,” she said, and she waved as he puttered on his way, radiant as dawn itself. She could hardly blame Greg and Mycroft if they perked up at the idea of an evening at the Celestials’.


End file.
